


On the Feast of Stephen

by De_Nugis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-17
Updated: 2011-08-17
Packaged: 2017-10-22 17:47:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/240841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam makes Dean breakfast, and there is confusion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Feast of Stephen

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers through 6.22.
> 
> Written for prompts from Mimblexwimble, who wanted Sam after the Wall fell feeling up to making breakfast for Dean and Dean eating it even though it tastes awful, and Persuna, who wanted post-6.22 smiling!boys.

The clock by Sam’s bed reads 9:50. It’s digital. Nine-fify-one, nine-fifty-two, nine-fifty-three, monotonous little steps counting into the future until they fall off the cliff at ten and start again at the bottom, one, two, three, four. It would be different with analog, solid quarters to square off the minute hand’s sweeping fall and climb. But even stretched across the bisecting diameters the circles might get dizzy. Maybe they should get a cuckoo clock, a crazy little bird in a cage, sprung out and snatched back on an iron arm. It’s 9:53 now. Nine fifty-four, nine fifty-five, nine fifty-six. Sam should get up before it’s ten and he falls down the hour.

Dean is still breathing deep and even in the other bed, deep and even like the snow in the Christmas carol, the one where the page would get lost in the drifts if he didn’t follow, maybe fall off an hour or over the white edge into a cage. Sam has Dean’s solid back between him and the edge, Dean’s footprints that lead out of hell. But Dean is tired. They’d had to climb out of the panic room last night after Sam fell and went down there. Only twenty-three steps and then sixteen to the second floor, but a lot of minutes had passed them, going the other way, and the clock was counting four-sixteen, four-seventeen, four-eighteen by the time Dean had said “You’re OK now, Sammy,” in the tone that meant Sam could go to sleep.

The page and the king in the Christmas carol were bringing flesh and wine. That’s what they went out for. Dean’s tired, so maybe Sam should go out. There’s snow all around Bobby’s, drifts of tiny stars that burn cold, but Sam could start a fire. He could make breakfast, bring Dean flesh and wine.

Sam goes downstairs, following the little trickle of minutes that are marching in the right direction, leaving Dean breathing deep and even. In the kitchen he turns the knob on the stove. Fire glows in an orange spiral, winter fuel. Dean will want flesh and wine. Dean is always having to go out in the snow to find Sam in his cage on the edge of the forest. So now it’s Sam’s turn.

Bobby doesn’t have wine but there’s beer in the fridge. Beer and bacon. The bacon is striped red and white the way flesh is. But that’s not going to happen here. Sam followed Dean’s footprints out of hell and here it’s not flesh, it’s just bacon. Cured in salt. Bacon’s supposed to be crisp. Deep and crisp and even, that’s right, those are the words.

Sam makes two piles of bacon, four deep. He hopes that’s deep enough. He stacks the bacon as evenly as he can. Then he puts the stacks on the winter fuel to get crisp. He sets a small file of minutes to march around the clock, keeping track because the moon won’t. No matter how bright it is, its face is blank.

After a little while the night begins to get darker, like it’s supposed to in the song, and there’s a shrieking that must be the wind. Sam can’t feel it, but that’s because Dean’s back is in front of him, like a wall, so the wind can’t get him. Dean stands on a chair and pulls the little white plastic moon down from the ceiling and the shrieking wind stops. Then he turns the knob on the stove and the winter fuel starts to fade.

“I made you breakfast,” Sam says. “I hope it came out right. It’s supposed to be deep and crisp and even.”

Dean looks at the bacon and rubs his hand over his face, like he’s still tired, but then he thumps Sam’s shoulder.

“It looks awesome,” he says, “Though you and me are going to have a talk after breakfast about the concept of pans. And you’re helping me clean the stove before Bobby gets back.”

“You should eat it,” says Sam. “You don’t have to get so tired, all the way to St Agnes’ fountain and back. I’m not that far out now. Just twenty-three footsteps and then sixteen.”

Dean puts the bacon on a plate and sits down to eat it. He takes the beer Sam hands him. Sam watches. It is kind of satisfying. No wonder the page and the monarch went all that way just to see someone eat. Dean looks up, chewing slowly. There are shadows under his eyes and lines bracketing his mouth. He’s working triple shifts, being king and carrying pine logs and fetching Sam back out of the drifts.

“You know the staring thing’s creepy, right?” he says.

“I’m seeing you dine,” says Sam.

Dean sticks out his tongue, smeared with bits of bacon.

“Yeah, well, see _this_ ,” he says indistinctly.

Sam smiles because Dean is teasing him. He doesn’t do that much now, his face goes grim and gentle when he’s picking the locks on the cage and leading Sam back, taking big, careful footsteps so Sam can follow, brushing the cold, stinging drifts of years off Sam’s shoulders when he falls back. But now Dean catches Sam’s smile and his whole expression lights up like it used to. Sam’s own smile stretches. His face feels like it felt back when it was his, before Lucifer wore it and it froze. It’s warm, Dean’s grin bouncing back, sparking like winter fuel.

“You’re so gross,” Sam says. “You’re like Gross King Wenceslas. I can’t believe I made flesh and wine for you.”

Dean stands up, still grinning, washes his plate. Sam comes over to watch, and Dean flicks soapy water all down his t-shirt. Sam pins him against the sink, snatches the sponge, and splats it down in Dean’s hair. Dean yelps and splutters. Sam laughs.


End file.
